Unexpected Hero: a Story in Snapshots
by Kitty O
Summary: So Merlin is found out. Nothing new. He's in trouble; nothing new. But the people who are helping him... WELL, they ARE new! Extended implied metaphor: Merlin is a tree; lol. No slash. Complete. Short chapters. NOT A DEATH FIC.
1. Photo No1

**A/N: So I'm not sure if this idea is genius or idiotic. Or maybe it's a little of both. It may have even been done before. So here's the idea. This story will be told completely in snapshots…. And any story piece that is missing, you fill in yourself. It should be pretty thorough though. I've already got the whole idea, and I may post the rest as one chapter or maybe just two or three as one chapter… You get the idea. So please be brutally honest and tell me what you think. If the idea's stupid, please tell me and save me some humiliation. Should I continue? Delete it? Should I cut the clever idea junk and just write it like a normal story? REVIEW!**

The beast is at his feet, large, black, and misshapen. He can't even look at it for too long without growing sick, and that's why he's staring instead at his sword, slicing through the air in an arc, blurred because of its speed—you'd never guess it wasn't a practiced move. His face is pale but determined, and it's obvious that this is his last resort; he doesn't like it. But he's not the sort to back down; you can see that in his narrowed eyes, his feet planted like roots in the ground. His black hair sticks to his face, wet, and his neckerchief is damp. He's tired, so tired. But after this stroke is finished, he'll be done… for now. He just has to finish this swipe. The trees in the green forest stand still, untouched by the wind, waiting with bated breath for him to finish off the creature that has plagued and bested so many knights. The sword which will finish the beast shines with a heatless fire. It matches the golden-sliver color of his eyes, which pulse with his inward magic.

He has no fear, just a sad sort of resignation. But this fearlessness exists only because he _thinks_ he's all alone.


	2. Photo No2

**A/N: Well here's Photo No. 2. Please review and tell me what you think. **

The first things you notice are his eyes, so big and blue, as though they are trying to outshine the sky. But the horror in them isn't at all like the heavens, which are so serene and peaceful today. And he has reason to be aghast. A second ago he had been rushing to save the dark-haired man; now he is frozen as the man saves himself with a burst of magic. His own blond hair is plastered to his forehead in his exertion, only moving slightly in the wind. A second ago the wind had been so welcome, but now it was chilly and cutting. His own sword, which he always holds at that ready, suddenly feels like a deadweight in his arms. His lips are curled up, showing his teeth, but not in a smile. The look on his face says it all: the disbelief, the fear, the dawning hurt. But for now he just stands. And he stares.

Just a few feet from him, the sorcerer is halfway through turning around. He cannot see the blond man yet, but somehow he knows that someone is there. He can tell something is wrong. Perhaps the trees are whispering it to him in their dry voices as their leaves dance in the wind and brush against each other. His eyes are not gold and they are not yet blue, but his face is still pale and still determined. He knows something is wrong, but he doesn't know what. In a second, he will finish turning, and his worst fear will be realized, and part of him knows it. He is in no hurry, though, and so he turns as a tree grows: slowly.


	3. Photos No3 and No4

**A/N: I'm on a roll now, but from now on I probably won't update so fast… Once every other day or so. Thanks so much for all the reviews!**

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_"Arrest him."_

The sorcerer does not look surprised, though he is being arrested, and you can see that he expected it. Even at this moment, as guards flank him and hold him roughly, he cannot blame the blond man. But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt like hell to be treated like this. The guards hold his arms back, making his shoulder ache and his chest thrust forward. His breathing is heavy and irregular, and it isn't just from his recent excursion. The magic-user is meeting the gaze of the royal, his own eyes filled with tears but his face smooth and expressionless. He doesn't move.

(You've seen the power in the sorcerer's eyes. You know he can escape. He knows it. The prince may know it. But if he does that, he may have to hurt the prince. And so the sorcerer stands utterly still. He is losing what may be his only chance to escape. And he knows _that_, too.)

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_"Arrest him."_

The prince said the words, but he didn't mean them. He's said them before, but he never means them. He wants to shout something else; he wants to tell the sorcerer to run, to escape. If not for the guards all about, crawling through the forest like worms in the soil, he would have done it—or would he? Being loyal to Camelot is what he does best, and he's always strived towards peace there. He is loyal to tell the guards to arrest the sorcerer. But now the guards have him, and in his heart, the prince wants them just to let go. Now the guards are holding the thin man, and the thin man is looking at him, and it _hurts_ to see the tears in his eyes, now totally blue. The prince, though, refuses to let it show, and so you can't know.

He is being loyal. But it feels as though he is the worst of scoundrels.


	4. Photos No5 and No6

The cell is dark. That is probably its best quality, as the rest of it is shrouded by gloom. But as a prisoner this would be hard to believe; the dark, which is so scary to a child who doesn't know what's in it, can be even more terrifying to an adult who does know. Spider webs drape the ceiling and walls like the curtains in a nobleman's room, hanging down close to the ground. The stones on the ground are uneven, worn down in some places by prisoners who pace. They pace, you see, to see if they can get away from the smell, which is that of mildewed, stagnant water and dead small spiders and rats and something else, something that no one can quite put their finger on—it's probably death and suffering. In this place they are strong and real enough to have a stench.

But the worst part is the door with its bars, for without bars and locks, something can't be a prison. The door stands there, an insuperable enemy. Even if you could take down the guards, even if you thought that you could defeat the king himself… The door would stand in your way. That is the purpose of the door, with its bars and its locks and its red stains—are they blood or rust? Luckily you can only see this if you squint. It is a mercy of the king's that the cells are so dimly lit.

No one ever thanks him, though.

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The dark-haired man sits in the corner of the cell, his sweat-streaked face having dried long ago, attempting to let the shadows swallow him. They don't, just play around him as though considering whether they should or not, teasing him. His knees are pulled up to his chest, protecting him, pushing the breath out of him. He seems to be shrinking into the wall. His arms are stretched out in front of him, forming almost straight lines that resemble branches, and they rest on the inside of his knees. Rope binds his wrists together, keeping them from pulling apart. Theoretically. The sorcerer is relaxed, but his arm and leg muscles are tight, ready to tense, ready to make a break for it.

His face, only partly visible, is pointed at the ground, still and white, and his lips are turned down into a serious expression. The one eye that is not in shadow is dry. Though it is the same shocking blue as usual, it seems different somehow—defiant.

His gaze is focused upward, not obliquely pointed at the floor like his face. He is watching the guards – there are so many of them, like rats in a pantry – for any sign of drowsiness or weakness. There are none, for the guards are standing watch over a traitor and a sorcerer, and they are alert. They don't want him to escape.

Everything about the pale magic-user – his dry eyes, watchful glare, tensing muscles, deceptively relaxed position – tells you that he knows his chances are slipping away like sand in an hourglass. And he's scared.


	5. Photo No7

**A/N: Meant to update tonight, but oh, well. Some Arthur time. **

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The prince lies in his bed, staring emptily at the ceiling. He's trying so hard to make his mind blank too, but he can't. The flickering, flashing blue of his eyes shows the mental activity that he just can't stop. All he can think about is the sorcerer and his hurt look, the wounded dark blue of his eyes. The prince is stretched out, physically comfortable but mentally squirming, trying to grit his teeth against the ache in his chest and stomach.

He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know who to trust. He doesn't know _anything_; he's a stupid, useless, confused, angry _prat_.

(Do you see why he's trying not to think?)

Alone in the dark, he feels like a hot coal has been implanted in him, with no one around to see or help. But it is important for you to know that he is _not_ going to cry. He would want you to know that tears are _not_ welling up behind those eyes that are looking but taking in nothing. He does not want to_ nor_ is he about to sob like a bewildered child. You just have to remember that princes _don't_ cry. Ever.

Even if they look as though they might.


	6. Photo No8

The sorcerer's gaze had fallen onto his lap, but now, hours later, he lifts it. He's slouched down, feeling defeated and lost. The defiant gleam is gone from his eyes, leaving them vacant. He's completely covered by the shadows of dusk, perfect cover, if only it were possible to hide in a one-room prison.

But it's not, and that's why gaze of the person who just stepped in is drawn immediately to the man sitting on the floor. The person watches him, seeming to look through him, to judge him. The sorcerer doesn't want to be looked at; that's obvious from the way he's shrunk into the wall as though he wants to become part of it. His face is even grayer than when you saw him last. Never has there been a man who seems to belong in a jail cell as this sorcerer does at this moment.

But the sorcerer couldn't resist the urge to see who is standing there peering at him like he's an oddity, like a pine tree that's lost its ever-green leaves; that's why he's lifting his eyes now, tearing them up from the ground and forcing himself to see. He looks apprehensive but curious, worried about whose angry pair of eyes he will find staring down at him. Like Lot's wife, he can't help it; he has to know, to see with his _own_ eyes who it is.

His eyes, though still empty and distant, shine faintly with that one question: Who? Is it the prince, there to throw accusations at him? The guards, there to taunt? The physician, to cry over him and admonish him?

You can imagine how surprised he will be when he sees that it is none of them standing there watching him. It's not the prince or the guards or the physician or even the kind maid. It's the king, shoulders tense, jaw clenched, with a strange look in his hard eyes.

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**A/N: Sooooo… What do you think is up with Uther? What's going on? Please review and tell me! (Not that I don't know, but it's more fun if you tell me.) Please? (If you don't, I'll find a way to blame this on Arthur… I always do!)**


	7. Photo No9

The sorcerer's mouth is opened in a silent cry, his body pressed back against the wall until he's almost flat. When he saw the king, he must have panicked, for now he is gaping up in fear at the man above him. His eyes, which hold no trace of gold, glimmer in the light, wide and shocked. His wrists, still tied together, pull unconsciously at the rope, wanting to come apart so that they too can push themselves into the wall. His head is back, revealing the Adam's Apple that stands out from his unprotected throat, moving up as he swallows hard.

You can tell that, just for a minute, he's forgotten that he has magic, that he has power. The king, so fierce and proud, has a way of making you think that he holds all the cards, of making you feel like he can do whatever he wants. He has confidence, and at the moment, the dark-haired warlock has none.

But the king does not look proud or fierce right now. He does not want to exult over the disbelief and alarm that the sorcerer betrays. For some reason, the king's eyes are softer; the line of his mouth, usually stern, is shaky. His hands are not clenched at his sides like usual. Instead they are limp and useless, hanging at his side. He does not look at all threatening.

And perhaps that's the scariest part for the frightened and uncomprehending sorcerer.


	8. Photo No10 and No11

_**EARLIER**_

_"Owing someone your life is not a debt that should be, can be, ignored."_

His wife is dead; the king is positively, completely, wholeheartedly sure of that fact.

And yet there she stands, bathed in golden, heavenly glory, and she is – oh, wonder of wonders! – _talking_ to him. Her sweet mouth, that he misses so much, is actually there before him, spilling words like precious gems on his ears.

This isn't something magic could conjure up; that is obvious enough to both you and the king, who stands staring at the apparition with a mixture of awe and love and fear. The ghost, or vision, whichever, is apart from and slightly above him, glowing ever-so-slightly. Her clothes are white, and so dazzling that they hurt the eyes. Her eyes are so happy, so content, but at the same time a little sad as she stands there staring at her earth-bound husband.

He gazes back at her, trying to memorize her as she is now, because if she ever leaves –which he so fervently hopes she won't – he wants to be able to see her as he wishes her to be for eternity. His eyes, still as gray as a storm or a sword, have hot, unshed tears in them, and his lips tremble. He hears the words, the so-important words, but he doesn't understand yet. He just wants to drink in the sight of his wife, standing there.

It can't be, of course. This is impossible.

_"I don't believe in miracles,"_ the king had once said to his physician, when his son was dying. But he had been proved wrong then, as he is being proved wrong now. You can see from the tears in his eyes and from the trembling of his body that he does indeed believe in miracles. He just doesn't dare to hope for them.

Now one stands before him, speaking words that he must hear.

_"Owing someone your life," _the spirit is saying,_ "is not a debt that should be, can be, ignored."_

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The king is running through the halls of the castle. _His_ castle, the one he grew up in, yet somehow, after what just happened, it feels alien. His everyday clothes, that long jacket, billow around him as his feet slap the castle floor in a steady, speedy rhythm, like his heartbeat.

He knows what the queen, the dead queen, was saying to him.

He knows.

The king did not always obey her wishes in life, even when she was right. But only a complete fool would ignore them in death.

And there are more reasons that he runs now, runs to a place that most men must be dragged towards. They all show in his eyes, but blur together in a mess of emotion and logic that he doesn't completely understand. He _does_ have his reasons, as a king should.

But for now, the reasons aren't the important thing. The actions are.

The king keeps running.

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**A/N: Now you know why I labeled this "Supernatural". I know it may be OOC of Uther, but in my opinion NOTHING is OOC for someone who just saw their wife's ghost! By the way, whoever didn't get my "Lot's wife" reference the chapter before last: It's a story from the bible about a woman who is ordered not to look at a city being destroyed, but she peeks over her shoulder and turns to a pillar of salt. Creepy. **


	9. Photo No12

_NOW_

The prince's feet hit the ground with a sudden _thump_, which carries a certain definite, final ring to it. His hands push him off from the bed, quaking, strangely weak.

He hasn't slept all night; that is obvious from his haggard face and droopy eyes, but he isn't going to let that stop him. The sorcerer is still on his mind, lingering with hurt eyes and his crestfallen expression, stealing his slumber. The prince is exhausted, and his whole body protests this in its shakiness.

But he, for all his messed-up blond hair and bleary blue eyes, holds something other than fatigue. His shoulders are set; his mouth is a straight line; his head is up. He's never looked more like his father.

He's never planned on acting less like his father…

He's determined.

Too bad he's only moments too late to do anything at all. It's all been done for him.


	10. Photo No13

Now the _sorcerer_ is running. He is escaping, fleeing, tearing haphazardly through the halls in the flickering torchlight. His face is white and frightened, suspicious, aged. From the sight of him, you would say ten years had passed since he killed the beast, but you know it has been only hours.

He is running from the dungeons. He is running from the suddenly-unfamiliar face of the king that leaned over him.

He is running full tilt from his destiny and for now he just doesn't care.

The life has returned to his eyes, but they are still in shadow as the torches flash strange dancing light upon his raggedy clothes and drawn face. Even as he runs, his body is tense and ready for action, waiting. He is looking around, prepared for something.

But there are no guards coming. The bells are not ringing.

His feet keep pumping urgently, for his life depends on it. His chest is swollen with the breath he is holding until he has to let it go or explode. His hands are clenched into hard fists at his side.

Destiny. Princes. Kings. Dungeons. In his flight, he is leaving them all behind, just as the faint rays of dawn consider leaking in through the windows.


	11. Photo No14

The meadow is so beautiful.

Grass blades, so much more forgiving than soldiers' blades, poke up from the soft brown ground. The heads of flowers, white and yellow and the occasional rebellious pink, float softly above this sea of grass, swaying as the wind touches them. Trees surround this place protectively, circling it like a mother's arms circle her baby. There is a faint green haze, lively and unnamed, lingering over the entire scene, fresh in the new daylight.

Bees buzz about the clover and butterflies swirl around. Birds sing to their hearts' content in the trees.

There are those that know this place well and say that this is the playground of some happy nymphs. There are those who know this place very well and say it is a bit if heaven on earth. Then, there are those who know it the best, and they say nothing at all about the meadow— they just enjoy it, take it in.

But the serene meadow is about to be interrupted. It's about to be disturbed by prison stink and busy boots; it is in the sorcerer's escape path.


	12. Photo No15

**A/N: A little less like a photo than all the rest, and I'm not really happy with this chapter (or the next one), but I hope you still enjoy it. **

_"Merlin!"_

The sorcerer is not the only one to step foot in the meadow. It took the prince a while to find the trail and catch up, but he kept doggedly at it until now, when he is jogging, on foot, behind the sorcerer. The sorcerer stops in his tracks, hearing that familiar voice. He is standing with his feet firmly planted, hearing the prince behind him, waiting and wondering silently.

And the prince's face is wrinkled in some strange expression, close to sorrow but a lot like concern. His mouth is open, ready for words to spill out, and you can tell what he'd like to say. But he'll never say these things. He'll say something, all right, but it won't be what he wants the sorcerer to hear. The echoes of the unspoken words flit about the meadow nonetheless, and both the prince and the sorcerer can hear them as plain as day.

_"Explain. I need you to explain."_

_"I feel so betrayed."_

_"Don't go."_

_"I don't understand."_

_"Don't leave me without my friend."_

_"Take me with you."_

But the prince doesn't say these things. And that's okay, because the sorcerer – the friend – understands the silence even before he turns around and sees the prince, his expression one of sorrow.


	13. Photo No16

The sorcerer is now facing the prince, but a distance is between them, a distance of about five feet and an ocean of different beliefs, of different upbringings. A chasm could have opened between them, for they can't really come any closer anyway. The sorcerer will always be magic. The prince will never be. The prince will always be royal, and the sorcerer will never be. The sorcerer is smiling, gently, at his friend, and opening his mouth to speak. He has to answer the unspoken questions of the prince. His eyes are slightly sad, and bright with something that could possibly be tears. He looks as though he hasn't slept in weeks, as though he aged dramatically when his secret was discovered. His answer is there before he says it, before he even opens his mouth, but he needs to say it out loud. He doesn't know what he's going to say though.

The prince is watching him with an air of slight desperation, eyes narrowed against the sun in his face. He has to hear what the sorcerer is going to say to him, and unlike his friend, the prince can't read the silence.

But how to say it? The sorcerer is unsure. He has to tell the prince so many things in so little time.

_"Someday, Arthur. Someday everything will be okay and this chasm won't matter anymore; it will shrink in time. Until then, go home."_ He has to say that, somehow, and make the prince understand it. He has to make the prince accept that it's his place to go home to the king and the kindly maid.

The sorcerer, as always, has to tell the prince the truth that should be obvious.

Around the two, white and yellow flowers bounce and twirl in the wind, but the men are completely still.

**A/N: How much begging would it take for you to review? Not much for some and tons for others, eh? Oh, well, please take a few seconds and tell me what you think!**


	14. Photos No17 and No18

The prince and the meadow see the sorcerer as he walks away. His head is up again, and his back as straight as it was before the time in jail. As he goes, shrinking into the distance, his feet crush small blades of grass and flowers, driving them back into the ground where they came. Soon he will disappear into the trees, who will accept him, let him in, until he is gone completely from the prince's sight, almost as though he'll become a standing tree himself.

The prince watches, blue eyes still narrowed, his face unreadable. He just watches. He doesn't move, doesn't even think.

The sorcerer, the prince's best friend, won't look back. Not once, because if he does, he'd see the place he's leaving behind. If he turns around, he'll see the prince, and he knows it. His head is pointed the other way, his neck as immobile as the trunk of a tree. No, he won't look back.

Which just goes to show you, that even the bravest man you know can still be a coward sometimes.

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Only the meadow itself sees the prince walk away. The sorcerer went and hid behind the trees a long time ago, and now the prince is taking his advice. He's going home to his father. He's going home to his kindly maid. The royal man, too, has his back straight, his hand resting gently on the sword that he didn't remove from its sheath. His footsteps are steady, a rustling crunch in the grass. As he walks, the sun shines brilliantly off of his hair, but it doesn't reflect the light back into anyone's eyes, because no one watches him go. No one except the meadow witnesses him leaving.

He won't look back either. He won't look back, because if he does, all he'll see is the empty meadow, still marked by the footsteps of the sorcerer who walked out of his life. But the sorcerer is gone, far from that little place with flowers and grass and bees. So the prince doesn't look back.

Which just goes to show you, that even the most stubborn man you know can be surprisingly accepting sometimes.

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**A/N: I kinda like these snapshots... And yeah, I know I just posted, but oh, well. I posted again! Embrace it! (And feel free to review both chapters, if you please!)**


	15. Photo No19

The flowers still dance, the birds still sing, but no human voices can be heard. If not for the crushed grass, the footprints of a prince and a sorcerer, forbidden friends, then you would never know they were once there. The meadow stands almost empty, but not quite; it holds one more thing for us today—a promise. This promise of a destiny to be fulfilled, many years from now…

One sunny day, a man, still young but experienced in the ways of the world, with short dark hair and the beginnings of a beard, will stroll into the same, unchanged field. Over his shoulder will be a pack, filled with all sorts of odd assortments and magical items, and on his face will be that trademark smile. Another man, a king, blonde, will have been sitting there for a while, waiting for him to come, just as he promised he would. He would wait there just to see that smile.

When the king sees the sorcerer, he'll smile and call out,_ "Merlin!"_

And the sorcerer, grinning, will wave like the idiot he is and shout, _"Arthur!"_

But that's not yet come to pass. It will come about; the silence of the meadow promises it, but for now it's just the empty pages in the photo album. It's the music, playing liltingly on the wind in the distance, but it hasn't yet reached its full sonorous potential—

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**END!**

**A/N: There you go. This chapter to **redlily**, who reminded me to write it! Also, I managed to write an entire story without using a character's name outside of quotes once! Anyway, please review. What do you think of the whole thing? So who was the Unexpected Hero? Uther? Ygraine? Arthur...?**


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